


All That I've Loved

by the10amongstthese3s



Category: Six - Marlow/Moss
Genre: Amnesia, Anne deserves the world but all she gets is PAIN, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Heavy Angst, Jane is always a good mum, Maggie is the supportive best friend we all need
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-06
Updated: 2020-01-06
Packaged: 2021-02-27 06:07:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,876
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22142284
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the10amongstthese3s/pseuds/the10amongstthese3s
Summary: When the Tudor Queens find themselves in the 21st century, Anne Boleyn quickly realises that she's the only one to have lost her memories. How long can she hide the truth for, though?
Comments: 18
Kudos: 174





	All That I've Loved

Anne Boleyn loved her fellow queens. She loved getting to perform with them on stage every night. She loved the way Kit would curl up in her lap on the couch, and the soft scent of pancakes in the morning when Jane prepared breakfast for them all. She even loved the familiar sound of Parr’s footsteps plodding along at 3am when the woman went to make herself another pot of coffee. It was familiar; reassuring.

What she didn’t love though, was having to listen to the queens crying each night on stage about all they lost in death. Having to tell her story night after night was even worse. A story she wasn’t even certain had all the details correct. How could she know? 

Anne Boleyn had amnesia.

When she came to life in the 21st century, Anne had no recollection of her past life. She had no idea who or where she was. The historian who helped her chalked it down to confusion and anxiety when she noticed Anne’s distress. Anne just agreed, knowing better than to argue with the only person she knew in this world.

Meeting with the other queens for the first time was made a lot easier by the historian who gave brief introductions of every queen. Catherine of Aragon seemed cold with her, almost bitter. It didn’t take Anne long to realise why. 

Had she really stolen this woman’s husband?

Alternatively, Jane Seymour seemed standoffish at first, as if expecting Anne to slap her. Would Anne have slapped her ladies in waiting? No. Even with her lack of memory, Anne was positive she was never a violent person. She may not have known her past but she knew her heart and that was enough. 

In hopes of easing the woman’s fears, Anne made a lighthearted joke and wrapped an arm around her shoulders. Jane froze up for a moment at first before giving a chuckle, quickly growing to trust the familiar woman.

Something that irritated Anne was one simple fact.

Jane knew more about her than she knew about herself. Maybe more than she would ever know.

She tried to get small tidbits of information from Jane but knew she could never approach the issue head-on. Not when she realised that every single one of the other queens had their memories completely intact. Instead, she opted to ask random, innocuous questions. “What was it like to be my lady in waiting?” “Was I a bad mistress?” That sort of thing.

Despite her constant feelings of inferiority and loss, Anne quickly learned to mask her emotions. She had to. After all, what good was a reincarnated Tudor queen that didn’t even remember her husband? So, she hid behind her jokes, constantly working to hide her true feelings. 

Hiding her memory loss from the queens was one thing, but hiding it from Maggie was a whole other kettle of fish. That woman obviously knew her better than anyone else.

God, if only Anne could read minds. If she could just ask Maggie about their past, she’d have all the answers she needed. That would mean exposing herself though, and god knows Anne Boleyn could never do that. She couldn’t show her weakness. Instead, the girl opted to ignore her former best friend, avoiding her at all costs for fear of breaking down and asking all she longed to know.

Not remembering her life was bad enough but there was one thing that broke Anne’s heart even more so than that.

Not remembering Elizabeth’s life.

What kind of mother could look at a painting of their precious daughter without a hint of recognition? Could she even call herself a mother anymore? No, she didn’t deserve such a privilege.

Night after night, Anne sat up in bed, her face buried in a book, scribbling down page after page of useless notes. In those months, she must have watched every single documentary on Tudors and Elizabethans that had ever been created. Some good, some bad, all useless.

Still, she had to keep trying. Something was bound to spark a memory if she kept trying.

Right?

Right. She couldn’t give up. Not now. Not without trying everything she possibly could. 

No matter how hard it got, Anne knew she had to keep up the charade, spending every moment of free time trying to remember something. Anything. 

It was at the theatre one day during rehearsals that a conversation Anne didn’t expect to be confronted by arose. She hadn’t noticed the date when she got ready for work. It hadn’t even crossed her mind that any celebration usually fell in March. The fourth Sunday of Lent should’ve rung a bell.

Mother’s day.

It was Jane who suggested that they all share a memory of their children, whether it be from during pregnancy, or after. A memory. Something Anne could only dream of sharing.

“I remember when I was pregnant, Eddie would go crazy when he heard the lute. Joan used to play little melodies to make him kick whenever I got anxious about him being too still,” Jane explained, smiling as Joan knelt in front of her, giving the queen the opportunity to play with her hair as she’d always love to do.

“Annie and I used to do that too! Remember?” Maggie beamed, making Anne’s heart drop.

Remember? Of course she didn’t remember! How could she possibly respond to that? 

“Oh… yeah, Elizabeth loved music,” Anne nodded with a weak smile, earning a strange look from Jane and Maggie. What had she said wrong? Did Elizabeth hate music? No, surely no child could hate music. Especially not her child.

Still, though, Anne could feel the eyes burning into her, judging her for some unknown reason. Maybe she deserved the judgment. She’d judge her too.

“Mary had this beautiful little dress that she wore for her christening. I can still remember how adorable she looked in it. My sweet girl,” Aragon recounted fondly.

There it was again. That awful word that seemed to taunt her. 

Remember.

“Oh, remember the christening dress, Anne? You loved that,” Maggie enthused, looking expectantly to her lady. A christening dress? Was her daughter christened? She supposed that would make sense.

“Elizabeth looked adorable in her christening dress,” Anne nodded robotically, unsure what else to say. “It was lovely.”

Again, Jane and Maggie stared at her with furrowed brows but said nothing. They seemed to keep an eye on her for the rest of the conversation, but Anne didn’t add anymore after that, only offering simple nods and hums. She wasn’t risking telling any more lies, that much was certain.

To Anne’s relief, nobody seemed to question her silence. Aragon and Parr understood how overwhelming talking about their children could be, so they made no effort to force her.

However, after hearing her speak, Jane and Maggie were on a mission. Anne Boleyn was hiding something, that much was certain.

Anne was staring at her reflection at her dressing table when she heard footsteps enter her dressing room, startling her slightly. There, looming over her, stood the frowning ghosts of her former life. Her mistress, and her lady in waiting.

“Anne… What’s going on, sweetheart?” One figure asked, the look of concern on her face more frightening than Anne had anticipated. She wanted to tell them. She wanted to scream and cry and let Jane cradle her as she confided in the motherly woman.

But she couldn’t do that.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Anne lied, “I’m fine.”

She wasn’t. God, she wasn’t. Her heart was thumping in her chest, the vibrations making her stomach churn, bile threatening to rise in her throat. 

“No, you’re not,” Maggie stated matter of factly, making Anne choke back tears. She knew. They all knew. “Annie, you called her Elizabeth. You never call her Elizabeth. Not unless Henry’s there,” Maggie said with a sympathetic frown, “what’s going on?”

Immediately, Anne felt her walls come crashing down. She didn’t even notice the tears streaming down her face until she felt Jane gently wipe her cheeks. 

Then, it slipped out. One simple phrase that revealed months of heartache and secrecy.

“I don’t remember.”

Within seconds, Anne was wrapped up in the safety of Jane’s embrace, a comforting hand rubbing her back, easing out her painful sobs. She could hear soft words of reassurance but none of it mattered. Why would it? Nothing would bring back her memories. Nothing would bring back her little girl.

They told her not to feel guilty. That it wasn’t her fault. How could they say that? How could they even begin to understand the pain she felt?

They couldn’t.

“I just want to remember something. Her eyes, her laughter, the warmth of her skin against mine. Anything,” Anne admitted, looking up to the women with bloodshot eyes. “Where do you go, when your mind doesn’t work with your soul? When your heart is mourning for something that you don’t even remember.”

After that, Anne was too emotional to speak. Too broken to function. All she could do was wail, burying her face in Jane’s neck as the woman rocked her, hushing her gently.

It took a while, but eventually, Anne’s sobs turned to whimpers; her tears turning to battle scars, staining her cheeks. Still though, thoughts raced through her numb mind. One thought in particular, screaming louder than the rest. 

Anne Boleyn was a bad mother.

As if sensing this, Jane finally spoke up, still holding the younger girl tightly.

“You were so in love with her. You used to sing her a song. Something you knew from your time in France,” Jane explained, before humming a simple melody. Did she know that tune? No, her mind was just playing tricks on her. She shouldn’t get her hopes up like that.

“I have a million stories I can tell you, Annie,” Maggie joined in, giving a sweet smile. “I’m sure Parr will be more than happy to tell you about when she was older too, once you’re ready. Maybe let’s focus on finding those memories of yours first of all, though.”

“Oh gosh, her memory was brilliant. By the time she was one, she knew exactly where to crawl to find you once she escaped her crib. Gave her night nurse a real fright many nights when she insisted on curling up in bed with her mama,” Jane mused, making Anne smile. Her baby girl was a trouble maker, just like her. Of course she was.

For hours, the women just sat and talked, telling story after story. None seemed to come with any memories but still, it was nice to learn more about her past life, and about her little girl.

Just as they were about to leave, a thought crossed Anne’s mind, prompting her to tug Maggie’s sleeve to hold her in place.

“Hey, you said I never called her Elizabeth. What did I call her instead?”

“Oh, she couldn’t say her own name so we used to imitate her. It was adorable,” Maggie answered with a smile. “We called her Lilibet.”

A spark.

A small one, but a spark, none the less. If you’re lucky, a simple spark may lead to a blazing fire.

Of course. Lilibet.

“My Lilibet.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading, my love! I've been trying to write this for MONTHS so I hope it was okay 💚🦆 You guys asked for more angst - be careful what you wish for! (Please let me know what you thought!)


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